


Slight Awkwardness and Extreme Embarrassment Are Not Fatal

by Caenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya swears like a sailor, Crack, F/M, Hook Up, Incest, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Sort Of, Strangers Having Sex, There is the slightest, They are cousins but don't realise until too late, barely mentioned reference to potential future Gendrya right at the very end, condom use, once they realise they are related it gets very awkward very quickly, realistic sex, safe sex, the cringe is strong in this one, useless idiots are useless, vaguest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: The Starks are in Kings Landing to meet their estranged Aunt Lyanna and her son Aegon.Arya uses her fake ID to go out for the evening to see her favourite band in concert at the Dragonpit and meets a guy called Jon she just "clicks" with. They dance, drink, and go home together.Aegon turns up for the meet the family lunch with a slight hangover and a damn good night under his belt, as he tries not to think too much about the girl he screwed eight ways to Sunday the night before.Arya's about to learn the hard way that she should really have bothered to open the image attachment to the e-vite.Aegon's about to learn that there's such thing as 'too good to be true' - and that one night stands can really, really blow up in your face, and not just because of the STD risk....
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 73





	Slight Awkwardness and Extreme Embarrassment Are Not Fatal

"Dragon Eye!" Arya yells at the bartender over the pounding bass of the music. "Pint!"

"Coming up!" He puts the brimming cup - plastic, obviously - on the bar and jerks his head towards the far end of the bar. "Lad down there paid." Arya snorts and hands over two gold dragons anyway.

"Tell him thanks," she says. "Cheers mate. Get one for yourself."

  
She goes back into the crowd, let’s herself get swept up into the crush and chaos of the crowd. She's not here to meet someone; she's just here to have fun with her fake ID and her favourite band. She'd even taken the trouble to tell her parents she couldn't be in the city until mid-afternoon the following day, so she'll have plenty of time in her hotel room to order room service and sleep off any after-effects in peace.

  
She doesn't have the fake because she isn't legal - she's perfectly legal to drink in both Westeros and Braavos. The fake part of is the name - Cat Bright. She doesn't want the hassle of showing an ID declaring her to be Arya Stark. No, tonight is about anonymity, privacy and just having fun. By herself. Without guys.

  
Although he is fit.

  
He's still over by the bar with what she assumes are his friends and he's definitely watching her. He's got dark hair curling around his face, just touching below his shoulders. Tight jeans, black button-down with rolled-up sleeves, an over-abundance of leather and probably rubber bracelets around his wrists. Flashes of silver at ears and eyebrow and around his neck too, although she's too far away to actually tell how many piercings and/or necklaces he's wearing. And she thinks he might be wearing Docs.

  
She's a sucker for a good pair of Docs.

  
Well, if he actually speaks to her, she won't necessarily dismiss him out of hand. She might consider giving him a chance, but for now at least, she's just here to dance.

  
She glances over a few times, but once the band's finished and a few people are starting to leave, she can't find him again. She never leaves a venue straight off, it's always a nightmare. And if she does hang around, she might see the band, might even meet them. It's happened before, she was at a gig at The House of Black and White and met the drummer from the Faceless Men afterwards. Slept with him too. Nice guy, still texts her occasionally if he's in the country.

"You still serving?" she asks the barman.

"Sure, we open till three. DJ'll be setting up next, same sort of music too if you wanna hang around. Dragon Eye, right?"

"Yeah, cheers. Is there a cover or an entry fee?" He winks at her.

"Not if you're already inside." She grins at him.

"Might hang around then. Cheers pal."

  
She moves to the end of the bar, hopping onto a stool with less grace than she'd like. She can people watch from here, and she likes to do that.

"Hey, do you wanna come meet the band? I know the bassist." She snorts into her pint - glass this time. The guy from earlier grins at her, his smile easy.

"That's a really shocking line," she answers. "Bet you say it to all the girls."

"No, seriously," he tells her, grinning. "I really do know the bassist. My name's Jon."

"Do I look like a groupie? Cat."

"No, that's why I'm asking. Here alone?"

"Yeah, but if _I know the bassist_ is code for _let’s go in that alley behind the club_ , I should tell you I'm a fully trained Water Dancer." He whistles.

"Impressive, but it's not. Sorry, I'm not very good at - this."

"This being approaching random girls in bars and asking if they're alone? No, you really, really aren't. Liquid courage?"

"No. My friend said if I didn't speak to you he'd shave my head."

"Do you want me to write you a note?" she quips, smirking now. She likes to think she's a fairly good judge of character - and she's never been wrong before. This Jon guy isn't giving her any bad energy. He just strikes her as a bit dorky. He smiles at her again.

"You're hard as nails, huh?" Somehow she can't stop herself grinning too. There's something infectious and endearing about his smile.

"Damn straight."

"Can I buy you a drink at least?" he asks.

"You already did," she points out.

"Actually that was Tormund," he says, shaking his head. "He uh - noticed me staring."

"Which one's Tormund?" she asks, spinning the stool around to look directly over at his group - all of whom have irritating looks of disbelieving glee on their faces as they watch her and Jon.

"The one with red hair."

"They look like they're amazed I haven't set you running with your tail between your legs."

"I did say I wasn't good at this."

"Still, they don't have to be dicks about it. Do you want to join me?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I love proving assholes wrong.” He laughs as he jumps onto a neighbouring stool.

“They're not – well, ok, they _are_ – but they're decent enough deep down.”

“I'm sure they're just excellent. So do you live round here?”

“Yeah, born and bred city boy. You? The accent isn't local.”

“I was born up North,” she says vaguely. “But I've been in Braavos for the last five years.”

“Water Dancing?”

“Sideline,” she says. “Irun an art gallery.”

“Oh, you're an artist?”

“Sculptor, specialising in metals. What do you do?”

“I’m in my final year at medical school. I'm gonna be a paediatrician.”

“Hey good on you. Bet the kids love you, all piercings and rock star hair.” He grins at her.

“Comes in handy.”

They keep talking all through the DJ setting up, they manage to yell at each other once he gets going, they buy each other drinks and at some point they both end up turning on their stools and sitting facing each other with their knees pressed hard together and the chemistry fairly crackling between them. Oh, hells. She might as well fuck him.

“Wanna get out of here?” she shouts over the music.

“Yeah, sure!” he yells back. She picks her jacket up from coat check whilst he fucks off to tell his mates he isn't coming back. At least he better be telling them that. She's not the type to be happy with an alleyway wall. She'll take him back to her hotel. That way if he does turn out to be crap in bed or if she just doesn't want him to stay the night, she can just kick him out when they're done.

He stops dead in his tracks when he comes out.

“Is that a Dragon Division repro?” he demands, stepping up to take the lapels in his hands. “I've never seen one this good. Is it official? God it's even got the rank insignia – Rider, wow. It even looks old.” It's actually real, but she's not stupid enough to tell a guy who obviously knows his history that bit of information. She knows good and well how much this jacket is worth – how much it had cost her. The Dragon Division were once Westeros' highest military order. Memorabilia is highly valued and rare. Sure there are repros but the craft of working the leather with metal, with decorating it – that knowledge is long lost.

“Upside to hanging out with artists,” she says instead. “A guy I know is trying to reproduce some of the stuff from all the old pictures. This was his latest effort and it was my birthday present.”

“Wow,” Jon says, looking deeply, deeply impressed. “What did you get him?”

“I made him a giant metal sculpture of a face,” she answers. “You wanna get something to eat or get a drink in a quieter bar or shall we just go back to my hotel and fuck?”

“Um, wow. OK. The third one?”

“Good plan,” she answers, stands on her tip-toes and kisses him.

His hands slide inside her jacket and his fingers tighten on her waist. She dives her fingers into his hair and yeah, she was right about those curls – soft as silk.

“Where we going?” he demands when they break apart. Well that's a change – any trace of his earlier awkward shyness is gone. His stare is intense, hot, pins her down and makes her feel warm from toes to top.

“Uh - I'm at the Bay View,” she answers.

“Good.” He takes her hand and starts walking.

“Why's it good?”

“Because it's close.”

“This is a lift, not my room,” she pants as he bites gently at her collarbone. She can feel how sensitive her lips are already, how his beard adds a burn to his kisses, how he adds a little bite now and then to her lip. He kept stopping on the way over to kiss her more and they barely made it into this lift before he was on her. The rail's digging into her back and she couldn't care less. She hopes he fucks like he kisses because she's in for a wild fucking ride if he does.

“Mm-hmm. Stop me then.”

“Nah, I wasn't complaining. Just making an observation. Fuck – are you part wolf or just hungry?”

“Depends on how you feel about bruises,” he whispers, his hand sliding under her shirt to smooth over her belly.

“Not above a collar,” she answers. “And only if I can reciprocate.”

“Same condition but Gods yes.” She shoves him out through the doors as soon as they open probably harder than she needs too, but he seems prepared to go along with it. He just grabs her waist and pulls her against him outside her room, moulding himself to her back as she fumbles the key-card out of her wallet.

They fall inside, kissing even as he kicks the door shut and literally picks her up. She normally hates it but Jon's not doing it to make a height joke - he's not that much taller than her, definitely under the average –and she's horny as _fuck_ , so she's willing to let him get away with it.

“Wait, wait,” she says, tearing her lips away from his. “I just need a sec, OK? Get the boots off, I'm not fucking around with all those laces.” He grins at her and obligingly sits down on the edge of the bed as she carefully hangs the jacket over the armchair her room boasts and slips into the bathroom.

It only takes a minute to freshen up and grab a condom out of her travel kit. Hey, just because she wasn't planning on the fuck doesn't mean she doesn't come prepared.

She shows it to him as soon as she's out the bathroom.

“I have rules about fucking strangers,” she says, smirking. “And rule one is that you suit up.” He grins and grabs his wallet off his bedside table.

“Same rule,” he answers, pulling a condom out the change compartment.

“I also like to inform you that I will not reach orgasm whilst your dick is inside me,” she says crudely. “It's not a fucking challenge, either. It just won't happen. Doesn't mean I won't enjoy it, doesn't mean I don't love it. Sex is more than orgasms anyway.”

“OK, got it. It's fine anyway. I'll make sure you get there.”

“Oh, you better, trust me,” she says, smirking. He grins back. “Anything I should know about you?” she asks, sauntering closer. He catches her waist again.

“I've got a couple scars,” he says easily. “Had a – fairly wild past.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she whispers, sliding her hands back into his hair. He rears up, kisses her _hard_ and pulls her down with him.

There's no more talking then. They strip each other roughly, nails scratching in places and clothes flying everywhere. She's pretty sure she'll end up finding something hanging somewhere ridiculous.

He's hot naked, seriously hot. Not ridiculous in terms of muscle, his build is more like her own–long muscle, whipcord strong but subtle. He must do some sort of exercise.

He gets her naked first, which she'd object to if she, you know, gave a shit. And she doesn't, because he's kissing his way down her body. He bites the softer skin of her belly gently.

“This good, if I do this?” he asks. “I want to taste you.”

“Yeah, yes, it's good -" He goes straight in and she gasps.

Enthusiasm, technique and no small amount of practise, probably, but who gives a fuck? He's actually _good_. Not exactly what one expects from a one-night stand, but she's not complaining about hitting the jackpot. His hands brace her hips, grope her waist, her breasts, his fingers dance over her belly and her thighs.

She comes hard and almost unexpectedly, crying out her pleasure as she tangles her fingers in his hair to ride out her orgasm.

“Fuck yeah,” he whispers in the half-dimmed light of her room.

“Shut up,” she pants. She knocks him onto his back and crawls between his legs. “We'll see how fucking cocky you are -" There's got to be some horrible snag to someone this generally amazing. Even his cock is straight out of her fantasies – responsive, slightly girthy, not so long she'll have to struggle to take it. Nor does he try and choke her with it, he's a gentleman about it and lets her take it at her own pace.

“Enough,” he grunts above her, grabbing at her shoulders. “Wanna fuck you -"

They clash hands over the condom, end up tearing it in their eagerness, use his instead and then she's sinking down onto his cock, feeling like all the damn air has been knocked out of her as he fills her. He grips her hips hard enough to leave bruises to match the bites at her collarbone, drives himself up into her. She grunts his name, hears him hiss her own fake out through his teeth –fucking hells, she'll be lucky to be walking after this –lets him take over the pace and turn them over, hitch her legs up over his elbows so she's practically _folded_ underneath him and he _thrusts_ and she thinks she might actually lose consciousness. Her vision goes a bit fucking funny anyway. She's pretty sure she's babbling helplessly and it's probably all utter bollocks but he's just fucking her, bordering on the absolutely merciless as he holds her firmly in place so all she can do is grab his biceps and hang on for dear life.

She's vaguely aware that she's so wet that there is a soundtrack but honestly she doesn't really give a shit. She loses track of time long before he tenses above her.

“Do you need any – I can -" She shakes her head almost helplessly, whining as she presses her hips downwards.

“No, no, you're good – just fuck me – come -" He obviously doesn't need any second telling. If she thought what he was doing before was fun – he tilts her hips up just a bit and tries to pound her through the mattress.

She thinks she shouts his name, _definitely_ hears him let out a gasp of _Cat, Cat!_ and then it's over, he's slumping first onto her and then beside her and both of them are panting.

“Holy shit,” she says, once she's kind of got her breath back.

“Sweet fucking Gods,” comes his answer and she laughs breathlessly.

“Yeah. Fuck – let me -" She reaches over to the little cabinet on her side of the bed and snatches a couple of the tissues out of the box she finds there, chucking him the box itself. “I think the bin's on your side but fuck if I know.” He gives a rough chuckle.

“Thanks.” Clean up as done as it can be with him _right there_ she rolls off the bed.

“Need a minute,” she says, making her way to the bathroom. Gods, she's tired and Gods she's feeling distinctly shaky around the thighs. She should go out in King's Landing more often, if guys like Jon frequent the city. She cleans herself up slightly more thoroughly and goes back into the bedroom, hoping she's not smiling _too_ dopily.

Jon is sitting on the edge of the bed, black boxers striking against his pale skin in the universal position of _do you want me to fuck off now I've reduced your knees to jelly?_

“You staying?” she asks lightly.

“Got nowhere to be till tomorrow afternoon. But I can fuck off if you want.” She shrugs.

“Stay then. Maybe in the morning we can screw again.” He grins a lopsided grin and nods jauntily. There's no trace of the nervous, fumbling guy from the bar earlier.

“I was hoping you'd say that. Into bed then, Cat,” he invites, like it's his bloody room and bed. “Better get some sleep.”

She puts her phone on charge before she sleeps, notes that it's damn near three in the fucking morning. Gods, this is going to hurt tomorrow.

She does fuck Jon again in the morning – thank the Gods for three-condom packets - slowly and fairly lazily, riding him gently and enjoying the lazy, half-asleep smiles he gives her when he comes.

“You should probably fuck off now,” she remarks, once they both come down from the afterglow. “I've got a dinner to get ready for.”

“Oh, shit yeah. I've got to go meet my mum,” he agrees, rolling out of bed and snagging his jeans. He goes commando, she notices, shoving his boxers into his pocket. In the harsh daylight of noon, she can see four scars on his chest and one on his back but minds her damn business beyond wondering to herself how he came by them. He drags his shirt over his head as she opens her suitcase to locate clean knickers and pull them and a loose tank top on.

“Just gotta ask,” he says, and she looks up from the mirror. “You did – enjoy that, yeah?”

“You wouldn't have got round two if I didn't,” she says drily, picking up her hairbrush and setting to work on the tangles caused by vigorous shagging. “Struggling with the orgasm thing, huh?” she adds, grinning at him in the mirror.

“A bit. But as long as you enjoyed it.”

“I very much did. I might not have an orgasm but I think people focus on that too much. I still really fucking love it.” He grins, a huff of laughter escaping.

“You're quite something, Cat. You uh – come to King's Landing much?”

“Occasionally. Why don't you write your number on the hotel-provided paper using a hotel-branded pen? Maybe I'll text you sometime.” He grins again, leaning over her to do just that. He pushes her hair back over her shoulders before he straightens up, runs his fingers over the bruises showing livid on her collarbone.

“I hope you do,” he murmurs. “You look positively fucking edible.”

He fucks off after stealing a kiss that leaves her smirking to herself. She's got a few days before her flight. Sure she'll be spending some time with the family but – well, why shouldn't she see if Jon is up for a few days of fun?

Once she's showered, dressed – with the bites carefully hidden under a high-necked shirt –and waiting in the lobby for the taxi to the restaurant, she composes a text to Jon.

_If you were serious about hoping I'd text you, meet me at the same bar tonight at 10pm._

His reply comes when she's in the cab.

_I'll be the guy asking if you wanna meet the band._

She grins, pays, and walks into the restaurant with a spring in her step.

“Reservation under Stark,” she tells the hostess. “I think – oh yeah, I am late, they should already be here.”

“Certainly,” the hostess chirrups cheerfully. Maybe she got herself fucked last night too. It really does wonders for the mood. “If you'll follow me, I'll show you to the dining room booked.” Arya follows obligingly, probably still smirking away. The girl stops outside the doors of the _Balerion Suite Dining Room_ and gestures. “I think you are the last, Miss, so I can take a drink order now?”

“Oh, a pint of whatever dark ale’s on tap,” Arya answers. “If there isn't a dark on tap right now, just a pint of whatever normal cider you have.”

“Certainly, Miss.”

“Thanks,” Arya says, opening the doors as the girl clicks away.

She fucking freezes in the doorway. It's not an exaggeration to say she literally feels her stomach go cold. Standing next to a woman who even Arya can see the similarities to her father in, is Jon.

_Shitting fuck shit._

“Arya!” her mother calls, completely and cheerfully oblivious to Arya's rapidly impending stroke/apoplexy/heart attack/spontaneous combustion. “You made it darling, I was just about to call you.”

“Taxi got stuck in traffic,” Arya grinds out.

“Are you alright?” Catelyn asks, looking at her with some concern.

“Fine!” Arya says, far too loudly to be natural. Even her sister Sansa is looking at her like she thinks she's gone completely batshit. Maybe she _has._ “I mean, yeah, fine Mum, I just – traffic, you know, bloody stressful.”

“Oh I know,” her mother sympathises. “Well come in, darling. Lyanna, this is our third one, Arya. Arya, this is your Aunt Lyanna and your cousin Aegon.” Oh, so she wasn't the only one who'd been running around using a fake name. _OK_ , she tells herself firmly. _Look only at Lyanna, she is talking to you, respond like a normal fucking person –_

“It really is lovely to meet you dear,” Lyanna is saying. “Your parents were telling me all about you – your own gallery, and so young too!”

“Thank you,” Arya answers, smiling. At least she hopes she's smiling normally and not baring her teeth at the woman like a psychopath. As her aunt isn't actively flinching, she assumes she isn't.

“This is my son,” the woman is continuing and _oh shit, oh shit, look at him, look at him and DO NOT LOOK AT HIS DICK WHATEVER YOU DO_ yep, there he is, white as a ghost against his beard.

“Hello,” Arya says, a little desperately. “I'm Arya.”

“Aegon,” he answers, and OK, that was OK, both of them sounded normal. Now what the actual fuck do they say?

“So what do you do?” she asks kind of desperately.

“I'm training to be a paediatrician,” he answers. “My mum’s a doctor too,” he adds and thank the actual Gods. It gives her an excuse to turn back to her aunt.

She knows for sure that Sansa has detected the awkwardness, because her sister keeps raising an eyebrow at her as the chatter builds up and as a waiter brings her drink in and as they all sit down and order dinner. Finally, Arya literally cannot stand it any longer. She types out a text to her sister.

_Bathroom. Now._

“Will you excuse me?” Sansa asks sweetly, standing up at once, Gods bless her.

“I'll come too,” Arya says, shooting to her own feet. It takes all of her self-control not to run.

“What on earth is up with you?” Sansa demands, as soon as they're safely away from prying ears.

“I can't tell you,” Arya mutters frantically. “Oh my Gods, Sans, I have – I have royally fucked it, completely fucking fucked it -"

“Good Heavens,” her sister says lightly. “You can be dramatic. It can't be that bad. Are you just horrifically hungover? You are very pale - I've got some paracetamol somewhere –“

“I don't need paracetamol, I need knocking out,” Arya groans. “Sans, I wanna tell you, I do, but I can't, I have to take this to my grave, this is really fucking bad -" All of the humour has vanished from Sansa's face as her sister catches at her and forces her to stop pacing.

“Arya, you're worrying me now,” Sansa says, her pretty face furrowed in a frown. “Have you – I mean is anyone dead?”

“No! Fucking hells, I would actually prefer it. OK, look. I will tell you but you cannot, and I mean cannot tell a single living soul and I mean that,” she babbles.

“Are you in danger or under immediate threat?” Sansa asks bluntly.

“No.”

“Then I will take it to my grave,” her sister promises. “I swear it.”

“I slept with Aegon last night.”

The silence is tense.

“You – did – _what_?” Sansa gasps.

“I didn't know it was him! I never opened that stupid fucking e-vite image Mum sent, I was at a bar watching a band, we got chatting, we went back to my hotel and fucked! Twice!”

“The name never gave it away?”

“Good fucking Gods, Sans! It's not like we exchanged last names and anyway he introduced himself as Jon and I was using my fake, you know what it's bloody like–“

“OK, OK, stop,” Sansa says, grabbing at her again. “Fix your make-up and your hair and calm down, because you know if we're much longer Mum will come looking. He did actually say before you turned up that he goes by Jon and I heard Aunt Lyanna telling Mum that he’d gone by it since he was about fifteen, decided he didn't like Aegon. And honestly, Arya, I can't say I exactly _blame_ you,” her sister continues blandly. “He's very good-looking. And if I had met him in a bar and not known who he was and he reciprocated my interest – well, I can't imagine I'd be telling a different story.” Arya gapes at her. “Now for the love of Gods, try and pull yourself together or it won't just be me who notices you're going completely mad.”

They get back to the table and Sansa saves them with a murmur of _women's troubles_ to their mother and a sweetly well-mannered apology to everyone else. Dinner proceeds normally and Arya manages to successfully avoid direct eye contact and conversation with Aegon/Jon for the entire proceeding.

It even ends OK – Lyanna and her Dad hug, having successfully put the drama between them away and then everyone is hugging everyone and Aegon/Jon avoids her as successfully as she avoids him.

“We have a suite,” she hears her father saying. “At the Dragon Pit. Perhaps we should all go back there and have a few drinks?” She loves her father, truly she does, but she could happily kill him.

“I'd love to, but I'm driving,” Lyanna says apologetically and yes, thank you Gods –

“Nonsense,” her father says. “I can arrange for a taxi to take you and young Jon home -" And Arya _might_ have just vomited in her mouth hearing that name in her father's mouth. “Come on, Lyanna. We still have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Oh, alright,” her new-found aunt says fondly.

“You and Aunt Lyanna should share a car, Mum,” Robb chimes in. Oh, she's going to shove her brother off a fucking cliff, she knows where this is going, it'll be just her luck -

“Oh, what a good idea,” Catelyn exclaims happily. “I can hop in with Sansa, I'm sure Robb, Bran and Rickon can squeeze in the back – oh but what about your car, Lyanna?”

“Jon could drive it. And Arya could jump in with him too! Then she won't have to worry about getting another cab!” She's going to murder her entire family, there's literally no other option. “That's alright, isn't it darling?” Lyanna is asking her son.

“It's fine by me,” Aegon/Jon says, rather weakly. “If it's OK with A-Arya.” She's pretty sure she's the only one who catches the stammer.

“Fine by me,” she mutters.

“Great!” Lyanna and Ned both say before Ned laughs and motions his sister towards the door.

So she finds herself getting into an old-ish two-door car – so no chance of persuading any of her tall-as-shit siblings to join them and sitting in a nightmare silence.

“Please say something,” his voice eventually says, five of the longest minutes of her entire life later. “I'm going to scream in a minute.”

“Oh my fucking Gods,” she moans, burying her face in her hands. “Don't - don't fucking talk. I cannot hear your voice right now.”

“And I need to hear you say you aren't going to have a complete Godsdamned freak out and tell everyone I fucked my cousin last night!” he shouts.

“Oh yeah, because I'm really going to put my Dad through that,” she snaps back. “I need a Godsdamned cigarette.”

“You can smoke in here,” he tells her through what sounds like gritted teeth. “Mum does. Just wind the window down.” She does it, fumbling with her cigarettes and lighter and inhaling as deep as she can. “What the fuck are we gonna do?” he asks, staring straight ahead as they wait for a traffic light to change. A couple of cars ahead, she can see her sister's car but it looks like Ned and Lyanna made it through the light.

“Just act normal,” she snaps.

“Fine, if you stop yelling random words and talking like you're furious,” he snaps right back. “Gods.”

“Don't put all of this on me,” she spits at him. “You were right there with me last night, having just as much of a good time – I mean, making a really big fucking mistake. And what's this Jon business?”

“Fucking hells,” he swears, raking a hand through his hair and really, she wishes he wouldn't, he's got such nice hair and she knows all too bloody well how soft that hair is. “I didn't lie to you. I go by Jon. I prefer Jon, because when I was born my Dad neglected to point out that he already had a son called Aegon. He's a tosser. So I was honest, people do call me Jon – unlike _you_ , Cat,” he finishes, bitterly accusing.

“I don't advertise my real name when I'm around strangers,” she answers. “It just – I can never be sure who people see when they know my real name before they know me as a person. I protect myself, and tough shit if that offends you.”

“Don't get touchy,” he gripes. “I was just pointing out you weren't in a position to be getting pissy over people using names that differ from their legal ones.”

“Fine, OK, I'm sorry,” she huffs. “I just – we _slept_ together. You’re my cousin and – twelve hours ago you were balls deep -"

“Stop!” he nearly shouts. “Gods.”

The silence falls again.

They're pulling up in front of the Dragon Pit Hotel before either of them speak again.

“Here's how this is going to go down,” she says bluntly. “We're going to go up there. We got along fine in the bar last night, we can do it here. We have a few drinks, we play nice, we act friendly and then I will make an excuse or plead work or something. We see each other only at family events and never, ever, _ever_ speak of this again. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he says, relief colouring his tones. “And Gods, but I need those drinks.”

“Fucking hells, me too. Come on.”

And it works too.

It takes a few months for her to stop dreaming about it and it takes a _lot_ of family events before they can make eye contact without immediately downing their entire drink and turning away from each other but it works eventually.

Maybe one day they'll even laugh about it, she thinks as she watches him dance at Robb's wedding a year later. Unlikely, but maybe.

Still, as she raises her glass to him and turns away to dance with a friend of Robb's who introduces himself as Gendry, it isn't all bad. Privately, she always thinks that if they hadn't slept together and endured so much horrific awkwardness, they'd have missed out on a lot of personal growth.

“What's so funny?” Gendry's asking her, a smile lighting up his own handsome face.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, grinning back. “Just thinking of an old family joke.”

“You want to get a drink, maybe?” Gendry asks her and over his shoulder she can see Jon sort of nodding at her and she smiles up at Gendry.

“Yeah, sure. That sounds nice.” She lets him lead her off the dancefloor as she carefully holds her bridesmaid's dress clear of her shoes. “Hey, you wanna meet the band?” she asks. “I know the bassist.”

Across the dancefloor later on, Jon raises his glass to her as she slow dances with Gendry. And it's not quite laughing at it quite yet but it's a start and she'll take it. She nods at him in return, smiles at him.

It's definitely a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh, the cracky one-shot. 
> 
> We likey.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you like this!! Now especially this writer lives for your loveliness and support.
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> Stay safe in these times folks! Even if you're in a country where the leadership is shall we say, blindly incompetent, please try and keep yourselves safe. I love you all and remember I am on Tumblr!
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> Captain_Caenea.
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> I occasionally use it too.
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> Thanks and lots of love :)


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